


Cigarettes Will Kill You

by spacemonkey



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been sixteen days</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cigarettes Will Kill You

**Author's Note:**

> Written in early 2007. This originally was meant to be a short funny fic about Jon and Stephen having a zombie apocalypse plan, but it turned into something long and manpainy.

_“Do you have a zombie plan?” Stephen asked and Jon couldn’t help but laugh.  
  
“A _ zombie  _plan?” he repeated.  
  
“Yeah.” Stephen paused long enough to tangle his fingers in Jon’s. “You know, a plan for when the zombies take over the world.”  
  
“For ‘when’? Don’t you mean ‘if’?”  
  
“It’s bound to happen at some point, Jon.” Stephen’s serious tone was betrayed by the small smile playing on his face. “So, do you?”  
  
Jon over furrowed his brow, hoping to receive a laugh. Stephen managed to stay strong. “I do, of course I do,” Jon sighed.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“You think I’m going to tell you?” Jon asked, surprised. “What if you turn into a zombie? You’ll come straight after me!”  
  
Stephen nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe you should have more than one plan,” he suggested. “The one you tell people and the one you keep to yourself. That’s what I have.”  
  
Jon was generally interested now; not sure whether Stephen was bullshitting or really did have a plan.   
  
He really wouldn’t be surprised. “Really? You have two?”  
  
“Sure.” Stephen smiled, snuggled further back against Jon. “I tell everyone my first one, so that if and when they get zombied and decide to come after me, they’ll end up in Mexico, while I’ll be hiding in my secret location.”  
  
“Mexico, huh?”  
  
“Zombies hate the heat,” Stephen explained. Jon almost wet himself laughing._  
  
*********  
  
He woke up, distressed at the memory of being happy. A glance at the clock told him that he’d only been asleep for twenty minutes; that he still had six hours to try his luck at a restful night.  
  
Jon scrubbed his face, groaned at the sharp pain stabbing at the back of his eyes, and crawled out of bed. He took a walk to the bathroom, peed and caught his reflection in the mirror.  
  
God, he looked  _old_.  
  
 _You are old_ , his reflection said and Jon blinked slowly.  
  
“Great, now I’m talking to myself?” he muttered as he opened the mirrored cabinet, pulled out aspirin.  
  
He closed the cabinet, looked at himself in the mirror once more.  _How long has it been?_  Mirror Jon asked.  
  
Jon popped a couple of pills, swallowed them dry and gave the mirror a look. “That’s an ambiguous question.”  
  
 _Since you slept at least six hours a night, since you were happy, since you talked, really_  talked  _to Stephen._  
  
Jon blinked at himself. “Less ambiguous, I guess. Which one should I ans-”  
  
 _They all have the same answer._  
  
Jon needed sleep. He knew that; had known that since he was ten and his dad had left him with a lifelong bout of insomnia. This bout had been worse than usual; he was talking to a mirror. “Sixteen days,” he muttered, spiting himself.  
  
He waited for an answer, a mocking, anything, but received nothing, just a knowing smirk.  _His_  knowing smirk.  
  
Jon didn’t sleep.  
  
************  
  
Stephen had desperately tried to get Jon to cut back on his coffee intake.  
  
 _“It’s no wonder you can’t sleep, you drown yourself in caffeine,” he sighed dramatically.  
  
Jon raised his mug, as if in celebration. “Join me over at the dark side, would you?”  
  
“I think I’m already there.”_  
  
Jon sipped at his coffee – third mug for the day, and it was well before noon – then downed it completely. He set the mug down on the desk, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; worried his lip with his teeth.  
  
Stephen had a point; he always had a point; he had always been the smarter one.  
  
“The better one,” Jon murmured. He rubbed his eyes, looked down at the segment he’d been writing. It was crap, utter crap; had been for sixteen days; longer. He knew it. The crew knew it, the fans knew it. They must have picked up on it by now; must’ve known something was up; that he was distracted.  
  
 _The Colbert Report_  was as good as ever. That cut Jon deeper than any words ever could.  
  
***********  
  
Jon managed not to speak to himself that night, managed not to speak to anyone.  
  
He needed sleep.  
  
As he pitifully drifted off, Jon realized he’d lied to himself.  
  
It had been a lot longer than sixteen days.  
  
***********  
  
  
 _“You seemed pretty certain,” Stephen spoke up.  
  
Jon fastened his pants, did the zip up then glanced at Stephen. “Thanks, so did you?” he ventured.  
  
Stephen laughed. “That wasn’t a sexy compliment.”  
  
“Hey, I take any words spoken after sex as a compliment.” Jon flopped down on the couch next to Stephen. “Certain?” he asked after a sated pause.  
  
“That I’ll come after you.” Stephen smiled at Jon. “You know, when I turn into a zombie.”  
  
“You’re seriously still going on about that?” Jon shook his head with a laugh.  
  
“Well, what makes you think I would? Come after you, I mean.”  
  
Jon turned to face Stephen, crossed his legs awkwardly; he was getting to old to do so, the cracking of the joints informed him. “Well,” Jon started, placing a hand on Stephen’s leg. “You love me.”  
  
“I do? Shit, when did this happen?”  
  
Jon smacked Stephen’s leg. “That doesn’t help my confidence any, you know.”  
  
“Sorry.” Stephen gestured forward. “Please, go on.”  
  
“I’m sure I read somewhere that zombies always go after the ones they love, is all,” Jon grinned.  
  
Stephen rolled his eyes, took Jon’s hand in his own. “You’ve actually done research about this?”  
  
“No.” Jon shook his head, lowered it as Stephen continued to stare. “I read it in a comic book.”  
  
Stephen nodded knowingly._  
  
***********  
  
Jon didn’t look at any mirrors that night; he had six hours of lying awake in bed to do so, but he refused.  
  
He didn’t want to see how old, how tired, how truly worn he was. He had heard enough of that from his make up girl for the first few days; later, she’d taken to giving him a disapproving look; now, her brow creased from worry.  
  
He was scared that he’d start talking to himself, if he found a mirror. It wasn’t healthy, wasn’t sane, and Jon felt part of him cry each time he thought about it; thought about the consequences it might lead to.   
  
He’d lied to himself, fucking  _lied_  to himself. If that wasn’t crazy, Jon didn’t know . . .  
  
He and Stephen hadn’t been happy for a long time.  
  
 _“Sunday, we could meet Sunday,” Jon suggested.  
  
“I’m busy.”  
  
There was a pause. Jon knew he shouldn’t, really shouldn’t, but he did. “You’re always busy.”  
  
Stephen’s head snapped up._  
  
************  
  
 _Don’t call him, don’t call him._  
  
Jon didn’t need a mirror to tell him what to do; his brain was still there, sleep deprived and fighting amongst itself.  
  
He wanted, needed to talk to Stephen, but he couldn’t. It was too soon, too complicated to be having that  _talk_ , and  _The Colbert Report_  was flourishing, while Jon was failing.  
  
Jon wondered if he was overreacting, and wondered if he  _wasn’t_.  
  
Maybe Stephen hadn’t loved him enough to fail.  
  
Jon didn’t need a mirror to strike him down; his brain could do that well enough.  
  
************  
  
His fourth coffee for the day, and Jon could hear Stephen in his head; in his mind again, chiding him about his habit; not chiding, something worse.  
  
 _“Another coffee?”  
  
“I have to stay awake somehow.”  
  
“Maybe if you slept better, you wouldn’t have to drink so much.”  
  
“Thank you, Stephen, after all these years of insomnia, I’m sure your magical words will do the trick,” Jon shot back.  
  
Stephen leaned forward, than back, than forward again, scowling. “You have sleeping pills,” he started.  
  
“Do you_  want _me to be the living dead?” Jon sounded harsher than he had meant, but he was tired, annoyed, and then some.  
  
Stephen left without a word, and Jon wondered if it was just the coffee he was pissed off about._  
  
************  
  
The phone rang four, five, six times and Jon went to hang up; knew the answering machine would kick in soon; he’d rung that number so many times, he knew.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
Jon squeezed his eyes shut. Why had he done this, why, why,  _why_? He could hang up, but Stephen would know, Stephen always knew.  
  
“Hello?” Stephen said again, voice clearer, more awake than before.  
  
Jon had to answer.  
  
“I-It’s me.”  
  
“Oh.” Stephen cleared his throat. “Jon, it’s two in the morning.”  
  
“Yeah, well you know me.” Jon laughed, awkwardly, tears stinging. He blinked them away.   
  
There was rustling on the other end, a click of Stephen switching on a lamp. “Are you okay?” he asked a moment later.  
  
Jon paused. He didn’t know how to respond to that. Stephen hadn’t asked him if he was okay in a long time; they’d both been too bitter to do so last time they’d talked.  
  
“Jon?” Stephen sounded almost concerned; the tears finally spilled over.  
  
“I, uh, I shouldn’t have . . . I don’t know what I was thinking, doing this, I just-”  
  
“It’s okay, it’s not like this is the first time you’ve called me at,” Stephen paused, “Two Sixteen.”  
  
“I know.” Jon bit his lip. It wasn’t the first time, but after last time, he had been sure . . .  
  
 _“Just because you’re awake doesn’t mean that I am, Jon.”  
  
“You’ve always said I can call-”  
  
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
Click._  
  
“Are you okay, Jon?” Stephen was asking again.  
  
Jon sucked in a deep breath. “I’m sorry I woke you up,” he said, then hung up.  
  
He stared at the phone for a while, danced between calling and throwing it against the wall. In the end, he reached middle ground and lay back down.  
  
Stephen was concerned; fucking concerned.  
  
Maybe Stephen hadn’t loved him enough to fail . . .  
  
************  
  
  
 _“In the basement of the abandoned warehouse just outside of Jersey.”_  
  
 _Stephen wrapped his arms around Jon’s waist, kissed the back of his head._  
  
 _“Professor Plum with a candlestick?” Jon said after a confused pause. He could feel Stephen smile._  
  
 _“That’s my second zombie plan,” he murmured._  
  
 _“You’re telling me your other plan?”_  
  
 _Stephen nodded, tightened his hold. “Even if you are a zombie, I’d still want you to follow me.”_  
  
 _Jon raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like dialogue from an 80’s romance movie.”_  
  
 _“I know.” Stephen pulled away, laughing slightly. “Your eyes are welling up, aren’t they?”_  
  
 _Jon let out a giggle, turned to face Stephen. He leaned up and kissed Stephen gently._  
  
 _“You can’t prove anything,” he announced with a grin._  
  
 _Stephen shrugged. “Give me time, I might be able to.”_  
  
 _Jon nodded, gave Stephen’s arm a pat. “Sure, why not?”_  
  
 _He turned away, muttering, “I just know you’re going to come up with a third zombie plan, you crafty bastard.”_


End file.
